Angels Without Hearts
by Draenog Glas
Summary: Sonic was a doll crafted by a boy ill at heart, who abuses the rest of his dolls. He holds onto that special thing called Hope, but never believes it will ever come and save him. Trigger warnings for mentions of rape. A children's storybook that talks about mental illnesses, mostly depression and PTSD.


**A/N: A story that's a metaphor for all the depression I've been dealing with these past few months.**

**Supposed to be written in a child's storybook format.**

**I'll have to edit this story later. The grammar and all that is incomplete and I still need to write and edit a few scenes in it.**

**I'm sorry it's taken a while to write these fics. I've been suddenly hit with fibromyalgia and some depression and other moodswings. I don't know when it'll stop, but I'm trying to write despite this, and giving myself breaks if I'm too depressed or the pain hurts too much.**

**I'll still be here. I love writing too much to give it up.**

He was threaded with care, and malice. The doll maker was very ill. Very ill in the head. He often believed the whole world was against him. He often believed his dolls could talk. He believed that Sonic was a very terrible doll, and he was the worst doll he ever made. The silk and faux-fur, the velveteen ears, the eyes that sparkled in the night, his heart rested so still inside his cottony body, and he wished he knew what was wrong with the doll maker. The doll maker, the wicked child he was, had many surgical tools resting beside the hedgehog, but he never used them except on his other dolls. They were torn, they were fabricated into monsters barely recognizable, they were raped with the feared scissors. The child lacerated a few of Sonic's wounds and often told him that he would never be loved, because children only loved dolls that were perfect and like the rest of society. Society's standards were too high, Sonic discovered.

His hands were sore. They had many lone strings of thread sticking out of him. His ears had blue strings from the scissors that pained him. His entire fibrous being was in pain, yet he continued to move, he continued to live despite the very sick child who wished to kill all of his creations. He felt the one part of him that kept him alive needed to die slowly, like a lame dog with no access to food or water.

Sonic tied his wounds like shoelaces. He kept the bleeding of his fibers in control. He never allowed himself to cry. He kept going, and lived in a doll house the child abandoned.

He tried to have tea without thinking of the child. His hands shook often, and his wounds still bled. His heart overflowed with sentimentalities and love. He wanted to love children who would love him back. There was only the child. The child used to know how to love. But after he was molested, he could never love again.

Yet another scissor made an incision to another doll. The doll's ligaments were ripped with the seam ripper. The scissors was inserted in their crotch. The doll gasped and choked, and tried to ignore what happened. They soon denied the whole thing happened. The memories of the present soon wiped away the memories of the awful past. The doll lived life merrily despite what the child had done. The child was never punished. He continued raping others.

Sonic prayed to God that the child would die. God never answered back. He seemed to have left and gone somewhere else.

The stitches always seemed to become looser the more Sonic thought. He tried to stitch them up tighter, but it only hurt more. The wounds soon bled more, and the child left to eat dinner with his grandparent's. Mashed potatoes. The only thing they ever ate. Potatoes were the only thing the boy liked.

The doll house was beautiful, but Sonic never could embrace its beauty. It was a shellfish pink, with small light bulbs that lit up the rooms, beds with real cotton blankets that warmed him through the cold nights, kitchen instruments made with real steel, and he found out how he could make tea and hot cocoa with them. It warmed his soul, but for only a short amount of time. It was very cold in the boy's room. It felt like winter was there all four seasons, and with its large white overcoat made of snow, it never left. It lived in the corner of the boy's room, on a rocking chair, continuously bobbing his head up and down, looking at the dolls. Many were destroyed, and winter only covered up the bodies, so the parents would never know.

Sonic tried to learn how to knit, with very little success. He tried to knit himself a scarf to protect himself from the winter that lived in the boy's room. He made a scarf that was very shabby, but kept him somewhat warm.

The sun rarely shone in the boy's room. It was often night. The stars wrapped themselves around the night sky, and tried to hug itself away from the sadness. The stars knew what sadness was. And they cried needles often, and they fell to the earth in the form of meteor showers.

The heart tried to warm itself, but still it was cold from winter. Sonic's velvet fabric never felt like it was enough. The sky sparkled like the stars. The stars shook as winter fell, the snow that dazzled the ground, hiding all the people that sunk in the earth. Sonic prayed for them, but they never answered back. They were gone like God.

The boy came back after his meal of potatoes, and continued to destroy more dolls. He created them from the most elaborate fabric, then tore them apart. He thought granting a beautiful doll life then taking it away was the cruelest thing you could do.

Sonic wanted to know what made the boy so sick. He heard what happened to him. He heard of how the other children treated him. But it didn't excuse his behavior. The doll house was blackened away from the little boy stomping the scissors on the dolls. He saw everything. He often wished his soul would melt away from his fabric.

He stitched himself again. The seams and fabric were becoming more prominent. They were crawling like maggots. The boy hated him because he was alive, and continued to rip him apart.

He thought the boy was sadistic, and often wished for him to die. It was terrible for him to think that he believed, for a child who only lived about eight years of his life. To die of a terrible disease. Cancer. Pneumonia. Tuberculosis. God's sleight of hand. Children like this should've never lived. God should always make children into cherubs, who were pure of heart and full of laughter and love. But this boy was a very sick boy, and couldn't die. People who were very sick in the head often lived longer than most people expected.

_This tea is never enough to make me happy. Neither is this dollhouse. Neither are all of the dolls who come visit me, with their crotches torn and their ligaments pierced and thrown across the room. I try to help those who are hurt. Because I love those who are hurt. I love those who believe life isn't fair. But I want to get help for me. I want to be okay. I want to be sound and mentally fit. I've always wanted to be okay since the boy had made me. Even with all my arms and legs intact, I never thought I was okay. I don't feel okay. I feel broken. But I never was hurt by those scissors. I was never hurt by seam rippers. I was never told I was worthless, but the boy went and made me feel broken. The threads hurt. The bones of my body often feel sore. The nerves, the veins, they all scream in pain. The boy made me this way. The cruel God, the cruel winter made me feel so sick. I don't know what I can ask of you, except to help me. I no longer want to be with this boy. I want help. That's all I want. I want to feel okay._

What did okay felt like? Did you no longer felt any pain? Did all the parts inside you function right? Did your heart felt loved? Did you no longer cry and did you always felt you were fulfilled and all your fluff and stitches were intact and functioning right? He wanted the feeling to feel okay. But he wasn't sure if he would ever feel that feeling. It felt like it would take so long to recover. Illness took away all of his energy. It felt exhausting just to feel like he was okay.

He tried to smile, but his stitches felt stretched enough that smiling hurt too much to do. He wanted to walk across the kitchen to get something nice for himself, like a cake, but the bed felt like it was such a comforting place that would nurse all his wounds. He wanted to only sleep. It was the only way he would ever feel okay. Not existing was the only way.

He thought if he slept, he would dream of being in another world. He could pretend he wasn't in the boy's room anymore. He could be somewhere else that was pleasant and not at all with the appearance of the boy, destroying his dolls, placing the scissors near their eyes and crotches and breasts.

He tried to pretend he wasn't here. He wanted to be somewhere else. He wanted to be where it was spring and warm and so relaxing. But it never came. Spring was dead. Winter always remained, and he looked at him with his blue eyes and told him it would never happen.

He couldn't remember why his legs and arms were bleeding. He stitched them up again. He denied. He lied. He felt too much pain at the truth.

Sonic left the doll house, to get some sugar for his tea. The boy often left many granules of sugar around the room, where ants had tried to steal them. There were also plates full of mashed potatoes and carrots and meat loaf. They were the only things the boy ate, and he soon grew tired of the same things to eat. He soon starved himself and only ate candy bars. He was anorectic and frail and sick. The parents refused to do anything about it, and he became weaker, the threads of blood soon drying in his hands as more life couldn't be created.

He wondered if God answered his prayers. He wondered if he would finally be okay. Would he finally feel like his body wasn't ill anymore? Would the aches and pains stop? Would he no longer be sad and miserable?

What was it like to be happy?

He tried to smile, but it felt unnatural. All the dolls around him told him to smile. They told him that there were worse problems in the world, that he couldn't be sad, and that he was always sad when he needed to cheer up. But how could he cheer up when there was nothing that made him happy? The boy was still there. Winter was still there. God wasn't there. He never felt loved.

He felt ugly inside as the days went by. His sateen ears became dirty. His fur was unkempt. He believed his soul was rotten and no boy would ever love him. He drank his pitch black tea, and it tasted flavorless. He counted the shaking stars in the sky. They were quiet, and he couldn't hear the winter wind blowing past. The snow hid all the dark secrets of the earth. The other dolls said there were dead people underneath it. He didn't believe them.

The world was full of dark secrets, he surmised. The boy had kept a secret for as long as many years. He felt that he himself had a secret. And so did the other dolls. Their selective consciousness never allowed them to remember the abuse. They were incapable of remembering it. Their bodies continued to show scars, but they never remembered why they felt sad upon looking at it.

The stitches were too much on his body. He wanted to be whole, finally, for all of these years. But the stitches remained as the bleed kept pulsing through. His body felt old and decayed the more he flirted with winter, the more he flirted with the boy who raped the other dolls. He never felt alive, and he wanted to kill himself further. It was the only way to feel okay and happy.

The sugar was laid on the ground, and the boy never bothered to pick it up. He kept some in his flaps of his skin. He thought nothing could happen, as the boy never cared at all for the many abandoned things in his room.

He thought he never would care for him, but that was another story. Sonic, in theory, was an abandoned thing the boy never forgot.

He remembered his games; he remembered all the good things he brought to the boy. But it only made the boy angrier. He thought happiness was a bad thing. It meant he was okay with the tragic and hurtful things that happened in his life. He stitched yet another doll, and raped it with scissors. Like he thought he was only wont to do.

Days passed. Sonic still didn't felt happy. The sugar in the tea still felt flavorless. The other dolls came and went. They were given life, then taken away. Sonic was the only remnant of the boy's memory that he felt he couldn't let go. But the boy was especially angry that day. His mother wouldn't allow him to get away from the house. She wouldn't allow him to get away from school, where the other children teased him and made him feel as low as the dolls. So he picked up Sonic in his doll house and aimed the sharp needle through his chest, the little fist of the boy shaking. Tears were formed in his eyes. The boy shouted and clamored that life wasn't fair. And he wanted to destroy everything this little doll had with his life. All the small things he built up, he wanted to destroy and remanufacture into sadness and sorrow.

He laid him on the operating table. Sonic's silk head was shaken, seeing stars in his vision, how hard that operating table was, the fluff that still collected on the sides of it. The boy wished him to drink something green, the liquid tasting like a mixture of Nyquil and an alcoholic drink the boy had found in his mother's cabinet. He fought against the throes of unconsciousness. The stars were melting in his vision, becoming smeared into a canvas of black. He told the boy that he never wanted this, he never wanted to live, and in fact he wished he could take his vibrant beating heart right now and make him die on his operating table. So many dolls wished for death on his table. And he was no different.

The boy grasped the seam ripper firmly in his fingers, and he told Sonic he would rip him away from the fabric of reality. Sonic said nothing, his tired eyes trying to grasp upon his face. He actually wanted to live at that moment, but he couldn't imagine his life further with the boy. The boy was too sick for his own good. He thought it was time for him to be taken away. Have his mother send him to a hospital far away and give the toys away to boys and girls who wished to have a companion. He wanted a soft-spoken girl who would truly love him and make him feel okay. But the boy still grasped the seam ripper, the scissors, and wondered why Sonic didn't at all seem afraid of his fate. He felt he had seen it too many times before, and he wanted to only get it away and over with, so he could be buried among the old man winter's snow.

The blue hedgehog looked so pathetic on his table. Tears were in his eyes, yet he tried to hide them from the boy. His throat felt raw and red from screaming and crying too much. He told him he only wanted to know what it felt like to be okay. That was his only wish, and the boy took all that away from him.

"I wanted to be okay too. And that was taken away from me when I was about two years old. I felt okay for two years. It was a good feeling. But now it's gone. Now I'm all alone in my room with winter. Now mother drinks away the pain. My grandparents give me potatoes and meatloaf every supper. Father is gone, but I know he will be around in my memories and dreams. He never truly went away. And I wished he did. But even if he died, he would still be around. And that's the worst thing you can give to anyone, Sonic. A bad memory. A traumatic memory. It never dies."

He believed it could die, but he wasn't sure how. He kept these memories for a very long time, and had never talked about them. There was something that could wash it away, but he never believed it would be in living. Death could wash it away, permanently, and God knows he sometimes truly wished to not exist anymore, but something continued to make his heart beat. Maybe it was God. Maybe it was hope. He drank hope in a large container and thought it could keep him alive, could keep all the traumatic memories so distant. He told the boy that. That hope was truly a precious resource he should mine.

He brought out the scissors.

"I lost all hope a long time ago, Sonic. I lost it when mother began to drink and refused to listen to every word I said. I tried to show her my good grades at school, holding onto that little hope that crawled inside the crevices of my heart like the little pathetic shriveling worm it was. She didn't care. I tried to tell her I loved her, and I wanted to keep living and making her life a happy one, an okay one. But mother felt miserable too. Father abused her as much as he abused me. Those traumatic memories still remained Sonic, even when father left a long time ago. I wished horrible things upon him despite my religion, but father is still alive, and that's why, my friend, I no longer believe in a God. He left after I was hurt and damaged to the point of thinking of suicide. Children shouldn't think that way, Sonic. They should be happy. But I'm not."

The fibers were bleeding through his body. He gazed at the boy, tried to see what was wrong with his heart, what made him not okay inside, but he was the same, he believed. He was only alive to suffer. He was only alive to experience the coldness and the white wrath of winter, the scissors that always lurked in the corners of the room, the only place where there was a white beacon of light. Sonic wanted to cry, but he could never allow himself to. Other dolls told him it was a sign of weakness. Nobody told him it was a sign of strength.

Sonic bled on the table, his wounds cauterized and the boy only took pleasure in his pain. He held the scissors, and told him there were only things so beautiful that you remembered them forever, but on the face of trauma, you forgot all these things. You became a zombie and emotions weren't given to you anymore. You're supposed to go on with society and perk up and smile when your mouth couldn't smile at all. He was a doll that was fabricated to society's standards, who felt a lot of pain. The scissors split his body in several pieces. He wanted to scream, but he felt weak, exhausted, tired of fighting when all hope was gone. He let himself cry, a little bit, but he wanted a torrential downpour from his eyes. He wanted to drown the world in his tears.

_We're both hurt, me and the boy. I want to bandage his wounds too, but his body is made of a different fabric than velveteen. It feels strange to my fingertips, and when he gets cut, he bleeds a vivid red…Like if it was paint._

He cut the boy with the scissors when he fought against him. His bleeding was so small compared to Sonic's seams.

_I hate him. I hate the child. I hope he dies one day. I hope he never comes back to this room. I don't care if I felt bad for him. I sympathized with him once, and then he hurt me. He broke me. I will never be fixed again. I will never be okay. The pain hurts too much. I wished I could sleep forever and never wake up. It's the only way I'll feel better. I'll only feel okay if I ever died. But if God hates me, then I'm sure I'll live and continue to suffer, continue to be cold by this winter, continue being hurt by the boy._

Morning was silent when it came. The sun shone on him, on the blood that collected on the operating table, and Sonic saw other dolls marching to his aid, threading him back together, with stitches that marked his body prominently. Sonic told them he wished to stay on the table and die slowly, but the dolls bore news.

"The little boy is gone. He disappeared out of our lives. Where did he go? We don't know, Sonic. I've heard talk from the mother that he was being admitted somewhere. I don't know where. To a movie? To a party? The boy may never come back. The mother is donating all of us to boys and girls who will love us, despite our flaws."

"No one will ever love me," Sonic said. "I'm too sick for them to love me. Too broken. What boy or girl would love a wounded toy? Wounded toys don't talk right. They don't play with the boy or girl right. They don't have the right parts, their inner workings are malfunctioning. Would a boy or girl love a toy that doesn't do what it's supposed to do? What if I was missing an eye, or my heart was torn out. The boy was close to ripping it out because he said I didn't need it, but I held onto it and kept it."

"Let me tell you a secret Sonic: All the best people are broken. They're broken in different ways, yet they continue to fight. They still have hearts like you. They want to set what's right in their lives. It's a long process, the road will be full of thorns and many sharp objects that remind you of scissors, but you will find people who will love you. And as far as I can tell, you're the best toy the boy made, and you will be loved lavishly."

Sonic noticed the air around them was warmer. The old man coughed, smoked his tobacco pipe, but Sonic felt something was wrong with him. He was sick. Winter was sick because the world had become brighter and warmer.

The mother gathered up all the dolls, finely threaded and stitched and bandaged by someone who was called a drunk, but had loving and tender hands. She looked at Sonic, the hedgehog who seemed brave to witness these things the boy committed to him, and her lips, while tasting strangely of red cider ale, Sonic's heart beat just that once, and he wanted to experience his heart being alive and making him alive and making him happy and okay, but it seemed as if the mother had told him that in due time, he would experience love in his heart again, by people in his life who would truly care.

He looked at the winter snow that melted when the mother took him to the van to drop him off to a toy store. There were no dead bodies like the other dolls had gossiped, but flowers that glowed in the sun underneath.


End file.
